


The Distance Between Two Points (Between Me and You)

by orderlychaos



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, cameo by Melinda May, cameos by lots of other SHIELD agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>After those first photos, Phil started finding them everywhere.  They appeared slowly at first, but soon Phil was finding pictures tucked in with Clint’s After Action Reports and requisition forms.  Once, memorably, Phil had found one propped up against a fresh cup of coffee.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>(Gifts were nice.  Natasha had said so.)</em>
</p>
<p>It all started with a half-naked photo of Jasper, and spiraled from there.  Mainly because Clint Barton is bad at making friends, and Phil Coulson is <em>really</em> bad at flirting.  So instead, they spend years wooing each other by sending photos (and driving their friends nuts).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Distance Between Two Points (Between Me and You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msraven/gifts).



> I know that smart phones and camera phones didn’t really spread into wide use until the mid-2000s at the earliest, but I’m going to pretend that SHIELD (and their really smart R&D people) had the technology prior to that :)
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone I bugged with questions about this. You’re all awesome <3
> 
> A very large thank you to Allochthon for the quick beta! <3 (All remaining mistakes are mine.)
> 
> Finally, a very belated happy birthday Raven!! I hope you like it :)

Phil Coulson was halfway through his threat assessment of South America when his email alerted him to a new urgent message.  He blinked, most of his brain still focused on the likelihood of General Oviedo making a grab for power in Paraguay, following the assassination of the Vice President.  Hopefully, this wasn’t another crisis that would demand Phil’s attention.  He just wanted to get things finished so he could go home and sleep.  Biting back a yawn, Phil frowned when he saw the email was from Clint, who had apparently tagged it “For His Impressive Agent Coulson’s Eyes Only”.  Phil did a quick series of calculations, but Clint’s mission should have been over already, even if he wouldn’t be back at base for a few more hours.  Besides, if anything had gone wrong, Maria Hill would just have barged into his office.  She tended to like doing that.

Pulling out the top drawer of his desk, Phil grabbed a small comm unit and patched himself into the mission frequency Maria had given him.  He knew without asking that it was Clint’s private channel.  “Do I want to know how you hacked into the ‘jets communications system?” he asked dryly.

Clint’s chuckle was rough and warm in his ear.  “Hacked is such a dirty word,” he replied.  “Besides, in this case it was more more like ‘rewire’.”

Phil raised his eyebrows, because he didn’t doubt for a second that Clint had calmly sat in the cockpit of the ‘jet for the twenty minutes required to send Phil an email.  Absently, Phil wondered who the pilot was.  It might have been Melinda May, which made Clint’s casual rewiring all the more impressive - Melinda was not known for her forgiveness when people messed with her ‘jet.

Of course, that was Clint Barton in a nutshell.  Somehow, he managed to charm his way into - and then out of - all kinds of trouble.  Phil had become very aware of that ability, even though Clint had only been his asset for a little over a year.  Nick Fury has recruited Clint himself, and Nick had ben unbearably smug about the whole thing.  Particularly when Clint had proceeded to demolish every range score SHIELD had.  No one has expected the rumours about to the former mercenary to be true, but Clint had proved beyond a doubt why he was called Hawkeye.  But despite his documented issues with authority, Clint was an impressively skilled field agent, and his marksmanship was only a small part of that.  He’d spent a few years bouncing around teams, while Fury sent Clint on every training course SHIELD had.  Clint had soaked up the information like a sponge.  Phil was alternately proud and concerned about that, depending on what prank Clint had pulled last.

“Have you seen the photo yet?” Clint asked cheerfully, breaking into Phil’s thoughts.

Warily, Phil clicked on the email attachment, even as he fought back the urge to remind Clint that he was technically breaking the mission’s security protocols.  Again.

Then Phil had to blink, suddenly confronted by an image of a half-naked Jasper Sitwell.  One of Jasper’s hands was vainly grabbing at the towel that was slipping off his hips, while the other was shoved in the direction of the camera, and presumably, Clint.  A toothbrush poked out of his mouth, and his dark eyes were narrowed behind his glasses.  For a moment, Phil just stared, not sure what to make of the picture.

“Barton…” Phil began.

“Hey, I waited until we were in US airspace to send that,” Clint protested, cutting Phil off.

“And that’s commendable,” Phil replied, “but it still doesn’t explain why you sent it at all.”

“What?  No lecture on security protocols, sir?  I’m shocked,” Clint teased.  “I was bored.”  Phil could practically hear the lazy shrug in Clint’s voice.  “Plus, aren’t you always looking for new blackmail material on your coworkers?”

Phil rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge that Clint couldn’t see him.  “Jasper’s going to be pissed when he finds out you sent that.”

“Jasper’s sleeping,” Clint shot back, his voice low and amused.  “Hang on…”  Clint muttered under his breath for a moment, before he gave a endearing “ha!” and Phil’s email beeped again.  This time, the accompanying photo was grainy and dark, but Phil could still pick out the shape of a rumpled Jasper Sitwell.  He was sprawled across two quinjet seats, one hand on his stomach, and his glasses crooked across his nose.

“Barton, should I be concerned with your sudden fascination of Agent Sitwell?” Phil asked, fighting to keep his own amusement from his voice and not entirely succeeding.

“Well, he is adorable,” Clint shot back.

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so,” Phil said, a smile breaking out across his face.

Clint chuckled, and if Phil closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Clint was in his office.  Clint had developed a recent habit of lounging on the couch in the corner, and Phil missed him when he wasn’t there.  Phil could almost see Clint’s exaggerated pout as his multi-coloured eyes danced with laughter.

(Yes.  Phil had noticed Clint’s amazing eyes, which seemed to change between blue and grey and hazel depending on his mood, or what he was wearing.  Just like Phil had noticed his amazing arms, his muscled honed by hours of training, and his amazing ass.)

“So… what are you wearing?” Clint drawled a beat later, and there was the sound of shifting fabric, as if Clint was getting comfortable.  A sharp female voice said something in the background, and Clint laughed.  “Okay, okay.  May says no comm sex in her cockpit.”

Somehow, Clint managed to make the word ‘cockpit’ sound incredibly dirty.  Phil ignored the small kernel of lust growing in his stomach, because he was a professional.  A man would have to be blind and completely straight not to find Clint Barton attractive, and Phil was no saint.  However, he was good at compartmentalizing, and squashed the now familiar lust back into its box.  “I’m not sure which one of you I’m more offended by, for thinking I’m that easy," Phil said.

Clint chuckled again.  “Oh, definitely me, sir,” he replied.  “May thinks you have too much class to fall for my rough charms.”

Phil snorted.  “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked, carefully changing the subject.  Maria had briefed him on the basics of the mission plan, and he knew Clint had spent most of the op holding position on a rooftop.

“I’ll sleep when I get back,” Clint replied softly.

Phil let out a silent breath.  Getting Clint to sleep on missions was an ongoing struggle.  Clint rarely relaxed around people he didn’t trust, or in places he couldn’t defend.  Phil had walked into a room more than once to find Clint perched on the windowsill keeping watch.  As far as Phil was aware, Clint didn’t have a problem sleeping in his quarters at SHIELD, or strangely in the ventilation.  Natasha's presence seemed to help too, and more recently, Clint had also taken to napping on the couch in Phil’s office.  The knowledge that Phil was on the list of people Clint trusted sent warmth spreading through Phil’s chest.

“Just make sure that you do, Hawkeye,” Phil said softly.

“Careful, sir,” Clint replied.  “If the junior agents hear you, your secret will be out.”

“And what secret is that?” Phil asked archly.

“That’s underneath the calm, capable Agent Coulson beats a heart of soft gooey marshmallow,” Clint said.

Again, Melinda said something in the background that Phil couldn’t quite hear, and Clint laughed.  “May says that’s not a secret.”

Phil huffed and rolled his eyes.  “I’m going now,” he said dryly.  “Barton, please try to restrain yourself from taking any more pictures of Jasper.  If he asks Fury to send you to Siberia, I’m not helping get you out of it.”

The last thing Phil heard as he cut the connection, was Clint’s chuckle, rough-edged and bright.

~*~

Clint Barton grunted, somehow managing to splash oil on his chest and drop his wrench at the same time.  The spanner hit the concrete with a loud clang, and Clint cursed, using his boot to roll himself out from underneath the SUV.  Letting out a loud breath, Clint glared up at the ceiling for a bit.  Clint had no idea what the hell Agent Blake had done to the SHIELD-issue car on his last operation, but he’d fucked up the engine _good_.  Clint wasn’t even sure it was possible _un_ -fuck it.

A low chuckle from next to him caught Clint’s attention, and he turned his head to see Agent Mackenzie grinning at him.  As usual, Mack’s coveralls were half-undone and the sleeves tied around his waist, revealing his dirty white tank and his well-muscled arms.  Clint would be impressed by those kinds of muscles on a SHIELD mechanic if Clint hadn’t seen one of the biochemists take down three six foot former soldiers in the gym last week.  Apparently, SHIELD only recruited terrifying badasses.

Mack raised an eyebrow at him as he finished wiping his greasy hands on a rag.  “Shut up,” Clint grumbled at him, but it was hard to stay mad at Mack for long.  He was just like that.

“I didn’t say anything,” Mack replied, his dark eyes dancing.

Clint pushed himself up until he was sitting.  “You didn’t have to, man,” Clint told him.  “I can hear your thoughts from here.”

In the corner, Agents Sharon Carter, Antoine Triplet and Jimmy Woo had clearly given up trying to field strip their jeep and were drinking what looked like several beers.  Clint frowned.  Carter, Woo and Trip were all junior agents - how come they got beer and Clint didn’t?

Mack followed his gaze.  “Come on,” he said.  “I’ve got beer in my office, and you can tell me exactly what Blake has done to that car.”

Clint blew out a sigh.  He still wasn’t entirely sure how Mack had tricked him into doing the post-mission overhaul on Blake’s SUV, but he was never, ever making a bet with the other agent again.

Mack offered him a hand to help Clint to his feet, and they’d both turned to head towards Mack’s office, when Agent Coulson appeared.  In his tailored suit, Coulson looked a little out of place in the SHIELD garage, but that didn’t seem to bother Coulson.  Today’s suit was charcoal, and Clint lost a minute eyeing the way the jacket stretched over Coulson’s broad shoulders.  The shirt was plain white, and Coulson’s tie was dark blue with silver stripes, meaning he’d probably had meeting outside of SHIELD this afternoon.  Clint wasn’t willing to admit out loud how long he’d been studying Coulson to predict his handler’s moods, but it had mostly started out as self-preservation.  If it had since merged into something that was more akin to subtle appreciation for Coulson’s handsomeness, well, who was going to know?

Scanning the garage, Coulson nodded when he saw Clint.  Coulson’s eyes automatically flicked over Clint in a familiar assessment, as if he was cataloguing any potential injuries Clint might have picked up.  For a second, Clint could have _sworn_ Coulson’s eyes lingered on his chest, but Coulson was probably just interested in the large oil stain now covering Clint’s old tank top.  Coulson definitely didn’t care that the tank was a bit small now that Clint had packed on the muscle, because Agent Coulson did not check out his assets.

“Awww, man,” Clint muttered, because he wasn’t going to get his beer now.

“Agent Barton, a word?” Coulson called out, his voice soft, but no less commanding.

Clint noted with amusement that Carter, Woo and Trip had all hidden their beers and were doing their best to appear completely innocent, to varying degrees of success.

“Blake’s car will still be here when you get back,” Mack told him, his eyes dancing.

Clint scowled.  “I hate you,” he muttered, before snatching the rag from Mack’s pocket to wipe his own greasy hands.

Tossing the rag back at Mack’s laughing face, Clint sauntered over to where Coulson waited.  “Hey, sir,” he greeted with a grin.  “What’s up?  Do we have a new mission?”

“Not quite,” Coulson replied, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth.

Clint easily fell into step beside Coulson as he left the garage, heading presumably for Coulson’s office.  Carefully, Clint thought back over the last week or so and tried to figure out if he’d pissed off the wrong person again.  He didn’t think he’d been any more annoying than usual, but maybe he had.  It probably wasn’t about Jasper still being pissed at him.  Hopefully.  (Seriously, six months was a _long_ time to hold a grudge about a single half-naked picture.)  “Did I fill out a requisition form wrong?” he asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Coulson said, that damn smile growing.

“Okay,” Clint said, drawing out the word as they arrived at Coulson’s office.  He eyed Coulson skeptically as Coulson waved him inside.  “What did I do then?”

Shutting the door behind them, Coulson crossed to his desk and picked something up.  Clint’s stomach clenched as he realized Coulson was holding a small stack of papers.

No, not papers.  Photos.

Pasting an obnoxious smirk on his face, Clint tried to hide his sudden dread.  He’d been on a surveillance-only mission with Agent Hand last week, and she hadn’t exactly been fond of his comm chatter.  In an attempt to keep himself awake waiting for their target, Clint had used his fancy, high-tech SHIELD camera to photograph a few cool things that had caught his eye.  Coulson must have found the results.  Clint wondered if he was about to get ripped a new one for misappropriating SHIELD resources.  So much for leaving a few of the photos for Coulson to find, because Coulson probably wasn’t going to want Clint’s awkward gestures of friendship after this.

(Gifts were nice.  Natasha had said so.)

“You left these on the camera after your last mission,” Coulson said, handing the stack of photos to Clint.

Clint stared at him.

Coulson quirked an eyebrow, a small smile curving his mouth.  “Engineering was impressed with the photos when they downloaded them.  You’ve got a good eye,” he added, his smile turning wry.  “Although, I’m not sure why they were so surprised, considering who took them.”

Coulson’s casual acknowledgement of Clint’s skill warmed something deep in his chest.  It was one of the reasons Coulson was the best handler Clint had ever had.  “I, um…”  Clint cleared his throat.  “I’m sorry, sir.  It won’t happen again.”

Coulson’s eyebrows rose, as if Clint had surprised him.  “Barton,” he began, before his voice softened.  “ _Clint_.  This isn’t a reprimand.  While some of those photos probably weren’t the strictest adherence to the mission plan, you weren’t hurting anyone.  I just thought you’d like them back?”

Clint swallowed, his throat thick.  How was Coulson real?  “Thank you,” he whispered.

Coulson smiled.  “You’re welcome,” he replied.

Silence reigned for a beat as Clint smiled back.  Coulson moved around his desk, as if intending to get back to work, but instead of sitting down, he trailed his fingers over a pen.  If it was anyone else, Clint would have said he was nervous, but Coulson didn’t do nervous.  “Oh, and if you need help with whatever you’re doing for Mack, I can have another agent assigned to the garage?” he offered.

“Nah, it’s cool, Coulson,” Clint replied, ducking his head to hide his smile.  “I’ve got it covered.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Coulson said.

Clint glanced up.  Coulson wasn’t quite looking at him.  It was… unexpectedly adorable.  Huh.  “I’m sure,” he said.  “Thanks for the photos, sir.”

“Always,” Coulson said softly.

Still smiling, Clint nodded and ducked out the door before he did something unforgivable, like kiss his handler’s stupid, handsome face.

~*~

After those first photos, Phil started finding them everywhere.  They appeared slowly at first, but soon Phil was finding pictures tucked in with Clint’s After Action Reports and requisition forms.  Once, memorably, Phil had found one propped up against a fresh cup of coffee.  Over the years, Clint transitioned from misappropriating spy cameras to using his new SHIELD-issue phone, but the photos never stopped.  Phil carefully kept every single one in a black, leather-bound album he locked in the bottom drawer of his desk.  Phil was never sure if the photos were a hobby, or something else, but there was no denying Clint had a good eye for composition and lighting.  Sometimes, when the loneliness made him fanciful, he imagined the photos as Clint’s awkward way of wooing him.  The photos were of places or people Clint had seen while on missions without Phil.  A few came Clint’s messy handwriting scribbled on the back, the notes almost always starting with the words, _Hey, remember when…?_

Phil wasn’t sure what to make of that.  He and Clint were definitely friends outside of work - they’d spent far too many hours on each other’s sofas watching _Dog Cops_ for it to be any different.  He’d been acting as Clint - and Natasha’s - handler on and off for six years now, and Phil treasured the friendships he’d been able to build with both his assets.  If his feelings for Clint ran deeper than that, if his admiration of Clint’s intelligence and sense of humour was more than platonic, no one had to know.  Clint didn't reciprocate those feelings, but that was fine.  Phil was dealing with it.

As if Clint had sensed how much Phil couldn’t stop thinking about him, Phil’s phone beeped with a message.  Smiling almost before he realized it, Phil picked up his phone and tapped the screen.  The photo that greeted him was of Clint’s grinning face, squished against Natasha’s slightly more disgruntled one.  The Eiffel Tower was clearly visible in the background, the sun setting in a blaze of glory behind it.   _Miss us yet?_

Phil chuckled.  Since Clint and Natasha’s current mission wasn’t anywhere near France, they must have achieved their objectives already.   _No_ , he typed back. _I don’t miss you at all.  My office is remarkably peaceful._

_Liar_ , Clint sent back.

There was a knock on Phil’s half open door, and the fond smile dropped from his face.  Agent Bobbi Morse grinned at him from the doorway, and Phil sighed, because he clearly wasn’t fooling her for a second.  “Hey, Coulson,” she greeted warmly.  “You wanted to see me?”

Phil’s phone beeped again, but he ignored it.

“I can come back later, if you’re busy?” Bobbi offered, her eyes dancing with teasing laughter.

“It’s fine, Agent Morse.  Please come in,” Phil replied, waving her in as he cleared a little space on her desk.

Phil’s phone beeped.  He kept ignoring it.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Bobbi?” Bobbi said, gracefully sinking into the chair opposite Phil.

When Phil’s phone beeped for a third time, Bobbi chuckled.  “You might want to answer that before Clint explodes,” she suggested.  “I can wait.”

Huffing out a sigh, because Clint was unintentionally _ruining_ his professional reputation, Phil tapped on the screen again.

_Nat says ur a drty rttn liar 2_

_Sir?_

_Aww, dnt b like that_

Another photo of Clint accompanied the last message, this time with an exaggerated pout and killer puppy dog eyes.  Clint was well aware of _exactly_ how to use that expression, and while normally Phil could resist it (mostly), this time he had an idea.  Clint had sent him photos for years, and even if this was nothing more than just friendship - no matter how much Phil wanted it to be more - maybe it was time he sent something back.  “Agent…” he began, before he corrected himself.  “Bobbi.  Could I ask you a favour?”

Both Bobbi’s eyebrows went up, but she nodded.  “Sure,” she replied.  “What do you need?”

Phil’s lips quirked upwards into a smile.  “A photo, if you don’t mind?” he said.

Bobbi grinned.  “Sure,” she agreed.  “I can help you troll Hawkeye.”

Phil blinked.  “I’m not entirely sure what that is,” he confessed.

Shaking her head slightly, Bobbi chuckled again.  “Nevermind.  So where do you want me?” she asked.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Phil took a moment to set up the camera on his phone.  Then he carefully turned it, so the camera would catch both Phil and the various electronic maps and tablets spread out on his desk.  Bobbi leaned in obligingly, but just as she had, Phil fumbled with the phone, almost dropping it.  Shaking her head, Bobbi grabbed the phone from Phil’s hand.  “Here, let me,” she said.  “I can get a better angle.”

Phil let her, only realizing her ulterior motive just before Bobbi took the photo.  “Were the bunny ears really necessary?” he asked pointedly, his eyes narrowed.

Bobbi grinned, tapping a few things on the phone screen, before turning it around so Phil could see.  “It’s cute,” she said.

If Phil didn’t have a soft spot for Bobbi, he’d be tempted to assign her something mean as punishment.  On the phone screen, his image was glaring sideways at Bobbi, who was poking two fingers up behind Phil’s head, grinning madly as she did.  Phil sighed.  “I supposed you’ve already sent that to Barton?” he asked.

Bobbi shrugged, unrepentant, and dropped the phone back into Phil’s palm.  When Phil checked, he wasn’t surprised she had sent it to Clint, with a message attached.   _We’re working.  Go annoy Natasha, Bird Brain - BM_.

_Hey! I’m wrkg 2!  Stop hogging C_ , Clint sent.

Phil huffed.   _Perhaps you could complete your extraction without spending three days in Paris, this time?_ he told his wayward asset.

_Not my fault!  Nat wntd shoes.  So many shoes._

Biting his lip to stop the chuckle that threatened, Phil typed back a reply and ignored Bobbi’s grin.   _Hurry back, and you can complain all about it over coffee.  We can go to your favourite._

Phil’s phone was silent for a minute, and Phil worried he’d pushed too far, or something dangerous had happened.  Then, his phone beeped, and Phil let out the breath he absolutely had not been holding.

_Hding to the airport now.  Be home soon._

“Come on, Coulson,” Bobbi said, and Phil became aware that he was smiling stupidly at his phone.  “Stop grinning at that thing, and help me with this analysis.  You promised.”

“Sorry,” Phil muttered, typing a quick smiley face back to Clint, before getting back down to work.

~*~

A hail of bullets hit the stack of packing crates just to Clint’s left as he skidded behind a forklift.  Ugh.  Gunrunners, seriously.  They always took things so _personal_.  Glancing around the warehouse, Clint tried to find a better place to hide so he could pick off the goons chasing him.  For half a second, Clint wished Nat was with him.  Not because Maria Hill wasn’t awesome, but because the Black Widow could make even hardened gangsters piss their pants in fear, and Clint could use a little of that right now.

“Barton.”  Maria’s voice was terse over the comm, and more importantly, _quiet_ , which meant she’d come inside the warehouse looking for him.

Clint cursed silently.

Spotting one of the goons trying to sneak up on his right, Clint shot him, before hooking his bow over his shoulder.  Pushing himself to his feet, he sprinted forwards, dodging around another stack of packing crates.  His boot hit the middle of a large shipping container as he vaulted himself up, bullets pinging against the metal below.

“Barton, are you there?” Maria asked in his ear.

“I’m a little busy right now,” he hissed in reply.  “Try calling back later.”

Rolling to his feet again, Clint raced to the edge and leaped towards the next, slightly higher, stack.  He grabbed the edge of the highest shipping container, using his boots to cushion the impact, and pulled himself up.  This stack was broader, two containers across in width, and Clint ducked behind another before someone started shooting at him again.  Now that he’d put a little distance between himself and the gunrunners, Clint paused a second to try and find an exit.  He’d been a little too busy dodging bullets to do it earlier.  The warehouse was dim, half the lights shot out in the gunfight following Clint’s discovery in the rafters.  A catwalk spanned the warehouse walls, and if Clint could get up there, he was pretty sure he’d find a way out.

“Hawkeye, what’s your status?” Maria asked.

“Well, there’s about ten heavily armed goons between me and the door, but otherwise, I’m just peachy,” Clint muttered.

Maria snorted, the comms sensitive enough to pick up the sound.  “Tell me something I don’t know,” she grumbled.  “Why’d you have to piss them off?”

“They’re _gunrunners_ ,” Clint replied, picking out a way up to the catwalk.  “They all have itchy trigger fingers.”

Spotting movement, Clint unslung his bow and nocked an arrow.  Below, Maria rounded a stack of crates, her gun held out in front of her.  Clint took out the goon sneaking up behind her, and then shot the two on patrol just up ahead of her path.  Glancing back, Clint’s mouth curved into a small smile when he found Maria’s sharp blue eyes locked on his position.  As Clint watched, Maria nodded once.  She appeared to be alone, and Clint had to bite back another curse.  She shouldn’t have come back for him.

“Do you have a way out of here?” Clint asked her.  “Or were you just hoping to get lucky?”

“Mostly, I was just hoping you wouldn’t get your disrespectful ass shot,” Maria replied.

“Hill…” Clint began.

“Shut up, Barton,” Maria hissed.  “If you try to tell me I should have left your ass here, I’m going to hurt you.  I don’t leave people behind.  I don’t leave _friends_ behind.”

Clint tried - and failed - not to be warmed by that.  “Thanks,” he said softly.

“Yeah, well, you can thank me by getting down here so we can get out of here,” Maria said.

Clint hesitated, but ultimately he trusted Maria.  Climbing down was easier than going up, and ten seconds later, Clint dropped down beside Maria on silent feet.  “So what’s the plan?” he whispered.

Maria jerked her head back the way she’d come, her eyes ruthlessly scanning the darkness.   Clint waited for her to go first, because he had no idea where he was going, and nocked another arrow onto his bow.

Avoiding the patrolling goons was actually kind of easy, even if he and Maria had to dive into an abandoned office about twenty feet from the back door.  Maria ending up pressed against him from shoulder to thigh as they hid in the cramped space behind the desk, so she felt it as well as he did when his phone vibrated in his thigh pocket.

Maria arched an eyebrow, her whole face asking ‘is that who I think it is?’.

Clint tried to look as apologetic as possible, even though he wasn’t sorry.  This thing where Coulson sometimes sent photos when he missed Clint was new, and Clint didn’t want to do _anything_ to make it stop.  Besides, he was supposed to be on their transport out of there already, safe on a ‘jet, not hiding under a desk.  Fucking gunrunners, _seriously_.

Maria rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated that she couldn’t say anything because of the nearby goon squad.  Spotting an opening in the patrols, Clint smirked and gestured for Maria to follow him, even as his pocket buzzed again.   _Of course_ Coulson would get chatty when Clint couldn’t answer him.

Five minutes and three arrows later, he and Maria were making a break for the extraction coordinates.  “The rest of the team?” Clint asked, dodging yet more bullets.

“I left them at the ‘jet, because they were slowing me down,” Maria quipped back, like her first instinct hadn’t been to prevent anyone else from being hurt.  Then, she pivoted and shot one of the gunrunners without even slowing.  “The explosives?”

“Set and ready to detonate,” Clint replied, digging into the pocket of his cargo pants to toss Maria the detonator.  At her surprise, he grinned.  “I know how much you like this part.”

Clint almost wished he could take a photo of Maria’s sharp grin as the warehouse exploded.  After Phil had been stuck in Chennai with Maria, he was probably more familiar with that expression than anyone else in the world.

Thankfully, the large explosion seemed to distract the remaining gunrunners, and they made it to the ‘jet without anyone else shooting at them.  Adrenaline thumping, Clint  didn’t let out his breath of relief until he and Maria had sprinted up the ‘jet’s ramp, and it had shut behind them.  The pilots needed no further instructions, and Clint slid his arrow back into its quiver as the ‘jet lifted off.  Finally sagging into a seat, Clint blinked in surprise when Maria sat down beside him instead of giving orders to the other agents on the team.  Raising his eyebrows at her, Clint pretended to ignore how the junior agents were staring.

“Shut up,” Maria grumbled, leaning in so that Clint could hear her over the sound of the ‘jet’s engines - and the junior agents couldn’t.  “I want so see what Phil sent you, asshole.”

Clint ducked his head, a funny feeling stabbing through his stomach.  Coulson sent those photos to _Clint_ \- not anyone else.  It was ridiculous, but Clint didn’t want to share.  Sighing when Maria just glared pointedly at him, Clint fumbled with his pocket.  “Don’t look so wary,” Maria said, her glare softening.  “It’s not like you’re at the dirty pictures stage of your relationship.”

For some reason, the air suddenly got caught in Clint’s lungs.  Coughing, he raised wide eyes to Maria’s, because _what?_  There were no dirty pictures.  Agent Coulson would never send a photo of any of his naked body parts to _anyone_ , let alone _Clint_.  They were just friends.  Weren’t they?

Maria rolled her eyes.  “Oh, this is worse than I thought,” she muttered, just loud enough for Clint to catch the words.  “You do realize this is how Phil flirts?”  She waved her hand at Clint’s white-knuckled grip on his phone.  Clint tried to relax his hand, but he wasn’t sure his brain had the capacity to do anything other than try to understand what Maria was telling him.  Maria sighed, leaning even closer.  “Okay, so here’s what you need to know about Phil: the man is an amazingly skilled agent, but when it comes to romance, he’s so repressed he wouldn’t recognize his own feelings if they bit him in the ass.”  Maria waved her hand at Clint’s phone again.  “So he does things like relaxing his guard around you, because he trusts you.  And lets you see how human he is, because he doesn’t need to make you believe he’s perfect anymore.”

Clint blinked.  “So you’re saying that _this_ ,” he said, wiggling his phone.  “Is Coulson _flirting_ with me?”

Maria grinned.  “Horrible at it, isn’t he?” she replied.

Actually, Clint kind of liked it.  It was nice.  Made him feel special.  Maria must have read some of that in his face, because she rolled her eyes again.  “Come on, let me see.”

Coulson had sent Clint three messages while he’d been busy with the gunrunners.  Tapping the first one, Clint couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face at the photo.  It clearly wasn’t a selfie this time, because Clint could see both of Coulson’s hands.  One was holding a donut, while the other was smoothing his tie out of the way of the powdered sugar.  Coulson was glaring at whoever had taken the photo - which, judging by the office around Coulson, was Fury himself.  Maria snorted in his ear, blatantly leaning over his shoulder so she could see.  He felt Maria snigger when his eyes caught the message at the bottom of the photo, the air seizing in his lungs again.   _Will you finally stop messing around and hit that?  NF._

(Clint clearly had allergies or something.  Someone should look into that.)

The second and third messages were from Coulson himself.   _Please excuse the Director.  Excess coffee consumption has made him delusional._

And, _Are you all right?  J says you ran into difficulties._

Clint smiled at the concern, particularly since Coulson was clearly ignoring mission protocol and messaging Clint _anyway_.   _We’re fine_ , he typed back.  No injuries.   _M even got to blow something up_.  Grinning, Clint turned his head to Maria, who just rolled her eyes again.

(She did that a lot around Clint.)

“Fine,” Maria said.  “Go ahead.”

Quickly, Clint snapped a photo of himself and Maria pressed together, but alive and safe.  Thirty seconds later, his phone vibrated with Coulson’s reply.  Clint opened the picture to see Coulson smiling back at them from his office.  It was late back in New York, and the fine lines were more pronounced around Coulson’s eyes.  He was probably fighting a headache after one two many cups of cold coffee, and his tie was loose.  It was pretty much the best sight Clint had seen all day.  For a moment, bittersweet longing squeezed Clint’s chest.  If he’d been back at base already, he’d be able to saunter into Coulson’s office, with it’s familiar scent of leather, ink and the faint trace Coulson’s aftershave.  He’d also be able to prod Coulson in the direction of bed, but even with the distance between them, Clint could at least do something about that.

_U look tired.  Go to bed_ , he typed.

_As soon as you’re back.  Promise_ , Coulson replied.

_Deal_ , Clint agreed, because that was the best he could do.

He glanced at Maria, who grinned at him, both eyebrows raised.  Okay, so maybe she’d had a point with the whole flirting thing.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clint grumbled.  “Shut up.  Do I tease you about that shit with Sharon?”

Maria blushed.  “You shut up,” she growled back, and they spent the rest of the flight home shooting increasingly sarcastic insults at each other.

~*~

The quiet knock at the door broke Phil out of his silent fretting.  Why exactly the number of coasters and the right flavour of popcorn had become such large issues, Phil didn’t wasn’t sure.  (Okay, he lied.  He could probably count to the exact second.  Like most problems in his life, it involved Clint.)

Regardless, the knock was a relief.  Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Phil crossed to the door and, after checking who it was, opened it with a smile.  “Hello, Tasha,” he greeted.

As always, Natasha looked beautiful in her simple jeans and leather jacket, although Phil’s smile grew when he caught sight of the dalek on her grey t-shirt.  Stepping aside to let her come in, he stomped down on his stab of disappointment.  Natasha was his _friend_ , and if she was here to join him and Clint for their afternoon on the couch, that was fine.  Better than fine, even.  Phil had absolutely no right to assume that he could have Clint all to himself, even for a few hours.  “Here to join us for _Dog Cops_?” he asked, as he joined Natasha on the couch.

“No,” Natasha replied, her lips twisting up into a teasing smile.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not going to invade your afternoon with Clint.”

Phil flushed faintly, because he had no idea he’d been so obvious.  “You are welcome to stay, you know,” he said softly.

“I know,” Natasha replied, her green eyes softening for a moment.  “I’m meeting Maria and Sharon for cocktails and shopping.   _After_ you and I have a talk.”

Phil ignored the sudden stab of apprehension in his stomach.  “Do we have a problem?” he asked.

Natasha rolled her eyes.  “Yes, Phil, we do,” she said.  “Our problem is that you haven’t asked Clint out on a date yet.”

Blinking, Phil opened his mouth, but no words came out.  Then Nick’s very similar words echoed in his mind, and he narrowed his eyes.  “Have you been talking to Nick?” he said.

Natasha’s mouth curved into another smile, her eyes dancing.  “No,” she replied.  “But if you don’t do something soon, I might have to.”

Phil cleared his throat.  “I have no idea what you think is going on,” he began.

Laying a hand on his arm, Natasha arched a pointed eyebrow.  Phil blew out a sigh.  “I’m not… Clint… Things are…”  Finally, Phil gave up trying to give voice to his chaotic thoughts.  “It’s hard, okay?” he grumbled.

Natasha bit her lip to hold back a laugh.  “It’s always hard,” she said.  “But don’t you think Clint is worth it?”

“ _Of course_ Clint is worth it,” Phil said automatically.  He only realized how vehemently he’d said it when Natasha grinned.

“Then you’ll find the words,” Natasha said softly.

Before Phil could say anything else, his phone beeped on the coffee table.  Natasha’s smile was teasing as she watched him, and Phil rolled his eyes, because there was no denying who it was.  Apparently, he and Clint had been distressingly obvious.  “Good luck,” Natasha said, rising gracefully to her feet and waving away Phil’s attempts to do the same.  Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to Phil’s cheek.  “I’ll see myself out.”

Phil reached down for his phone and tapped the screen as the door closed behind Natasha.  His stomach was a bundle of nerves, which if he was being truthful, had been there before Natasha’s arrival.  In an attempt to distract himself, Phil opened the photo.  The image was grainy and at a weird angle, but Phil could make out the shape of a sleeping man on the subway, a tiny, adorable puppy curled up asleep in his lap.   _OMG, Phil, I want to steal him_ , Clint had sent.

_I’m assuming you mean the puppy, rather than the man?_ Phil texted back.

_U not funny_ , Clint replied.

Phil grinned, because he could see the glare Clint was sending his way.   _I’m hilarious_ , he typed.   _Ask anyone_.

Clint didn’t send a message back - instead, Phil heard a sharp rap on his door.  Schooling his face into something a little less ridiculous, Phil got up to let Clint in.  “You’re really not hilarious,” Clint told him as soon as he opened the door, and it took Phil a second to put the comment in context.

Clint rolled his eyes and handed Phil the pizza box he carried, before sliding past Phil into the apartment.  “Hello, Clint.  How are you?  Please come in,” Phil said dryly to the empty space in his doorway.

“Don’t be an asshole, Coulson,” Clint said, thumping down on the couch and immediately helping himself to a large handful of popcorn.

Shaking his head, Phil headed to the kitchen.  “Beer?” he called over his shoulder.

“Umm, no thanks?” Clint called back hesitantly.

“Is everything all right?” Phil asked when he returned to the lounge with napkins.

Setting the pizza box down on the coffee table, Phil put the napkins next to it, and turned to fully face Clint.  Clint had already shucked his jacket, leaving him in a black Henley that clung to his muscular chest and arms.  Phil blinked a few times when he realized his gaze was lingering in places it shouldn’t if he didn’t want to freak Clint out.  He snapped his eyes to Clint’s face, only to find Clint watching him with a sharp stare.  Phil cleared his throat awkwardly, and waited for Clint to say something.  In his chest, his heart was pounding, and a whole carnival of butterflies had set up shop in his stomach.

“Clint?” he tried after a minute.

Clint blinked, breaking his stare, and dropped his eyes to his twisting fingers.  “You like me, right?” he asked.

“ _Yes_.  Of course I like you, Clint,” Phil said, not even needing to think about it.  “You’re one of my closest friends.”

Clint’s shoulders relaxed.  He glanced up, looking at Phil through his lashes, which in Phil’s opinion, was a blatant misuse of a devastating weapon.  Clint’s eyes were impossibly blue like this, his smile wry.  “So that means you’ll forgive me when I do something stupid, and it doesn’t work out?”

Phil fought back a frown, and let out a breath.  “Tell me what happened, and we’ll try to fix it,” he said firmly.

“I haven’t done it yet.”  Clint’s smile curved into something more teasing, and Phil blinked, because suddenly Clint was close enough that Phil could feel the brush of warm breath on his cheek.  Clint studied Phil’s face, but Phil had no idea what secrets he was betraying.  He’d gotten into the habit of lowering his guard around Clnt, and it felt far too defensive to raise them again.

Clint leaned in slowly, one arm braced on the back of the couch near Phil’s head.  Phil had a moment to hope his heart didn’t beat its way right out of his chest, before Clint’s lips were brushing against his.  The kiss was barely that, Clint’s touch soft and heartbreakingly tentative, like he was expecting Phil to pull back and punch him.  Considering how long Phil had been dreaming of this sort of impossibility, he wasn’t going to stand for that.  Sliding his hand up Clint’s side, he smiled at the way Clint shivered, before curling his hand around Clint’s neck.  Arching forward, Phil pressed harder into the kiss, wanting to be closer to Clint’s solid strength.  Clint moaned softly, the tension suddenly disappearing.  Now that he was no longer holding himself back, Clint’s body pressed Phil back into the couch as Clint settled more weight against him.  Phil opened his mouth as Clint licked across the seam of his lips, his hands sliding up to dig into Clint’s soft hair.

By the time Clint pulled back to rest his forehead against Phil’s, they were both panting, and Clint was somehow stradling Phil’s hips.  Phil wasn’t sure he ever wanted to move again.  “Maybe not so stupid then,” Clint breathed, leaning back a little more so he could see Phil’s face.  His smile was small, but his eyes were blindly bright and happy, that Phil’s breath caught in his throat.  Clint’s hair was messy from Phil’s hands, his lips slightly swollen and pink, and God, Phil wanted to keep him forever.

Clint ducked his head a little.  “Stop that,” he muttered.

“Stop what?” Phil asked, trying to wrangle his brain cells back into usefulness.

“Staring at me like I’m better than a rare Cap trading card,” Clint replied.

“But you are,” Phil said helplessly.

Clint’s eyes went wide with wonder, his thumb sliding across Phil’s cheekbone.  “You know, Maria said that when you started sending me photos back, that was your way of flirting.”

“She’s probably right,” Phil admitted.  “I’m pretty bad at that sort of thing.”

Clint raised his eyebrows.  “I’ve seen you flirt pretty competently on missions, sir,” he said.

Phil tried to hide his wince, but he was pretty sure Clint caught it anyway.  “Phil, not sir,” he said quietly.  “And on missions, I’m focused on my objective.  I refuse to treat you like a target, just so I don’t trip over my own tongue.”

Clint let out a soft gasp, almost like he was in pain, and then Clint was kissing him again.  Phil had no idea what had prompted that, which was a little unfortunate, because Phil wanted to make this happen _all the time_.

“So, hey,” Clint said, when they finally stopped kissing.  This time, Phil’s hands had migrated under Clint’s shirt, and his brain was finding it very difficult to concentrate on anything but soft, warm skin.  “Do you want to get dinner with me sometime?”

Phil almost pointed out that they already had pizza, before the meaning behind the words sank in.  “Yes,” he said.  “Absolutely.”

Clint sort of squinted at him, which looked unbelievably endearing with Clint’s hair sticking up in random spikes.  “You know that was me asking you out on a date, right?” Clint said.

Phil smiled.  A bright, warm contentment was bubbling up in his chest.  “Why do you think I said yes?” he replied

Clint rolled his eyes, but the effect was ruined by the smile he couldn’t stop.  “Asshole,” he muttered fondly.

Shrugging, Phil pulled Clint a little closer.  “Want to forget about the pizza and make out on the couch?” he asked hopefully.

Huffing out a chuckle, Clint leaned in.  “I like the way you think,” he replied.

Phil grinned.  “Awesome.”

  
End


End file.
